


Celebrity

by mnemosyne23



Category: Lost RPF
Genre: F/M, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-22
Updated: 2006-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne23/pseuds/mnemosyne23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom teaches Emilie about life in the limelight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebrity

Emilie doesn't understand celebrity. She had a taste of it with _Roswell_ , but then there were as many fans who hated her as loved her, so she doesn't know what it's like to be truly appreciated. _Lost_ is like a wake-up call to her hidden Hollywood status. _Hey, the cute Australian girl with the textbook ringlets who played the alien bitch. Did you know she could act? And be LIKABLE? Shock._

She still doesn't live in the spotlight. Maggie gets the most flashbulbs, and Evangeline the most interview requests; but she does okay. The others -- the ones with more experience and years in the business -- assure her it's just a matter of time before everyone knows her name. They say it with soft chuckles, as if to say, _Yeah, kid, you don't know what's around the corner. Just you wait and see. It'll knock your socks clean off, all the way back to Australia_. In a way it scares her, because she likes being in the public eye, but she also likes being able to step away. Unrestrained fame is a little terrifying. She doesn't know if she wants the world to know her name.

So Dom schools her.

Everywhere he goes, The Hoardes (capitalized in her head, because they're THAT BIG) seem to follow. They find him on the beach, at the mall, at the corner store. He can't buy a jar of pickles without an autograph request from the checkout girl, or pump a tank of gas without the guy in the next lane asking for a picture. Sometimes when she's with him -- and even when she's not, and only hears the stories -- Emilie wonders if the fans realize he's NOT a hobbit. Most of them do, she's certain, but sometimes…

Years from now, when "everybody knows her name," will there be people who ask her about the baby?

It's a wonder, how he handles it. After three years under a constant barrage of fan pressure, he still keeps his cool, still smiles for the cameras and teases the blushing girls. In every interview, there're the inevitable questions: _So, how is this different from Lord of the Rings? Do you still see the other "hobbits"? Which is more beautiful -- Hawaii or New Zealand?_ Sometimes Emilie wonders if the PRESS realizes he's not a hobbit.

He tells her you've got to take it in stride. He tells her you've got to accept that this role has changed your life. He tells her you've got to be thankful, because a lot of other actors won't EVER have this chance. He tells her he could be bumming around the back streets of Manchester, but he's not, and thank God, because he'd die of boredom. "Besides," he tells her one night at a luau, when they're both half-sauced and wearing a dozen leis apiece, "it could be a lot worse."

"How so?" she asks, tongue numb and tasting like peppermint Schnapps.

"I could be Orlando." He mimes paparazzi, ducking and bobbing behind the bar, faking the rapid fire point and shoot of the photo press.

She laughs as he takes another shot of Jager; the guy must have a hole in his leg. "What about Kate?" she asks, sipping on the frilly green straw that goes with her frilly green drink. "What about the pair of them together? Constant hassle, day after day, cameras in your face, reporters flanking your every escape route…"

"Poor bastards."

"Mm…" Her cheeks go concave as she sucks harder on her straw.

"Ah well… Life of the beautiful people, eh?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Can't say as I feel TOO sorry for Orli, though. I mean, he gets to neck with just about every lovely in Hollywood, then go clubbing with a beautiful blonde on his arm. Can't summon much sympathy."

She smacks him on the shoulder, and he laughs. "You, sir, are a slut," she slurs, waggling her finger in his grinning face. "And a wh… A who…"

"Whore?" he supplies helpfully.

"Tha's right, a whore. Yer one of those, too."

"If that's true, Em, why are we still here talking?"

She decides he has a point.

 

\------------------------------------

 

Really, it was a foregone conclusion they'd end up here. You don't go drinking with your onscreen love interest unless you're interested in lovin' _off_ screen, too.

The whole cast lives in the same little neighborhood, so it's easy enough to stumble into Dom's bachelor pad without arousing too much attention; it's not like she lives on the other side of town. Emilie's own little bungalow's just up the street, but Dom's is closer, and neither of them feels like waiting. He's got her tank top half over her head before the screen's swung shut behind them, and she takes the initiative to yank it off the rest of the way. "I told you," she pants against his mouth. "Whore."

"Mmm, I love it when you talk dirty," he says with a grin, whiskers scraping against her face.

"I never talk dirty."

"All the more reason to start now. Make up for lost time."

She shuts him up with a kiss as her hands fumble with his jeans. They separate long enough for him to pull off his t-shirt and throw it away, then they're falling onto his unmade bed and his hands are EVERYWHERE. She likes this. Likes his fingers and his lips and the accented way he moans her name. Even drunk, she knows she wants this. Even drunk, she knows he does, too.

She kicks off her shorts and sandals and whispers, "Slut," in his ear. He moans, and she knows he's hooked.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

He's sleeping, and she's watching him.

Dom's been schooling her, and now Emilie's had her first real crash course in celebrity. She just fucked a hobbit. If the world didn't know her name yesterday, it will tomorrow. When the sun rises she'll decide whether or not the trade was reasonable. But right now, watching him sleep and tracing his Elvish tattoo, she thinks it was; and if there's one thing Dom's taught her about fame, it's to always live in the now. Because there's no such thing as a guaranteed paycheck, and tomorrow hasn't happened yet.

 

 

**THE END**


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